


Arrow Fools

by ArielleArcher



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArielleArcher/pseuds/ArielleArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The very essence of romance is uncertainty." – Oscar Wilde</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, Felicity Megan Smoak does Bad Things. Not just bad things, but _Bad Things_ , capital B, capital T. Like after she and Oliver have an argument and she hacks his MySpace account – no, he doesn't have Facebook yet – and changes his profile picture to an image of a genetically-mutated turtle. Or after a long day of work when, for entertainment purposes, she reprograms the Cave door code and watches through the security feed as Oliver and Diggle try unsuccessfully to get in. Ha.

When she is feeling especially naughty, Felicity burrows under the covers of her trundle bed with her personal laptop, a glass of wine, and imported chocolates and spends the night unearthing online college records of Saint Dinah Laurel Lance. Which she carefully and meticulously scours for dirt. (So far nothing, but she'll keep trying. No one is that perfect.)

The bottom line is that Felicity is not a good person. Good enough that she doesn't have to worry about The Hood bursting through her window; wicked enough that if she sees water-gun packaging in the Cave trashcan she knows to watch her back. Diggle is swift with his revenge, but Oliver… he waits. And plots. The island taught him both patience and cunning, and he does not hesitate to use those lessons against her whenever he sees fit.

It is for this reason that she should have seen the fateful dinner invitation for what it was: a trap. A supremely executed, brilliantly played trap. But the pathetic part is that she never suspects a thing, never scents the lie. No, Felicity glides happily along, secure in her assumption that a sense of higher morals will interfere with him plotting anything too devious.

Really, she should know better by now. Isn't he the King of Masks? Doesn't he dress in a hood and leather pants and shoot arrows at his own mother? She, more than most, has had opportunity to observe his psyche... If only she had used that information to become better prepared, remembered that ethics have no part in the catching and disposing of his prey.

Her only defense is that she's never considered herself a victim, not once. Even when Helena is tightly binding her wrists together, even when she has a bomb collar strapped around her neck, she feels fear but not despair. The reality is that Felicity wakes every morning knowing it can be her last, and when danger rushes her (as it is bound to, her being associated with The Hood), she stays strong because she faces it by choice. The decision to find Walter is her own; her decision to work with Oliver, her own.

The consequences, when they come, are her own.

That's why, although it occurs to her that he'll doubtless be ruthless and dedicated in the pursuit his revenge, Felicity at first isn't terribly frightened. Still a civilian at heart, she watches the situation develop from behind her rose colored spectacles – pushing them up the bridge of her nose from time to time – and naively assumes he'll play by her rules. Deludes herself into believing she is on his level, when the reality is, Oliver has survived warzones by developing nerves of steel and quicksilver reactions. Too late, she realizes she never had a prayer of beating him.

 _At least_ , she comforts herself later; _At least I won't ever have to see his face again._

Truth be told, she's rather fond of his face…and other parts of him that tend to glisten with sweat (and sometimes she burns to lick that thin sheen of salt from said parts), but that's beside the point. The chance to moon over and lick his face won't be in her future at all, if she can't find an escape from current quandary. She won't _have_ a future if she keeps hiding in the bathroom wearing a dress more expensive than her car mortgage, quivering like a panicked rabbit.

 _Time to face the music, Smoak_ , she rallies. _Even if it sounds like a funeral dirge._

Felicity exits the restroom.

* * *

_Six hours earlier…_

* * *

"Would you like to go to lunch with me?"

With a twist of purple-skirted hips, Felicity swivels her computer chair to face him. Her ankles are demurely crossed and clad in a pair of sedate Mary-Jane's. "By which, I assume you mean, do I want to go pick up the take-out? Which is normally Diggle's job? No need to beg – as much I enjoy scrolling through pedophile police lineups, the answer is _yes_."

"Actually," Oliver corrects, "I meant lunch. As in, a restaurant. With waiters."

"Waiters? Real people, who do none vigilante-related things?" Tap-tap-tap goes a pink-tipped fingernail against the desk; today's color matches her lipstick: _Sun-stroke Flamingo_.

"Yes. Real waiters."

 _Too easy_ , something inside her cautions. Her boss is not a man given to handing out lunch breaks. Best to dodge and evade. "Pedophiles are a nasty bunch, you know. Really gross."

"I can imagine. Lunch?"

 _Okay, then_. No side-tracking the tough-guy. Cautiously, she asks, "The bill is being footed to you, right? None of that _wham, bam, thank-you-ma'am_ and leave the girl with check business?"

"Felicity…"

Something's up, all right. He's playing innocent, those big blue eyes blinking down at her guilelessly. She knows better than to trust that blink. She does. But her butt's been glued to the plastic seat for the better part of four hours and it's kind of numb, and her stomach is rumbling for food that doesn't come in a plastic carton accompanied by sauce packets.

"I, um, suppose it would be nice to see people not wearing zebra stripes."

He nods sagely. "And you do like _Enzo's_."

 _Enzo's_. She can practically taste the hot marinara sauce on her tongue, the smell of fresh mozzarella and frying garlic. _Enzo's_ is unarguably the best pizzeria in Starling City. Covertly, she rubs her chin to make she isn't salivating. Drooling in front of her hot boss would make the list of her most awkward moments, which is already embarrassingly long, even longer.

"Baked chicken parmesan? And a Caesar salad?"

"All-you-can-eat fresh breadsticks," he promises. "Or… _General Tsu's_ soggy fried rice. Again. For the fifth time this week. Choose wisely."

To heck with it caution; she'll throw it to all four winds. Chicken parmesan, here I come. " _Enzo's_ sounds –"

"Wait, oh God, Felicity!"

Oliver's exclamation freezes her. His face is tight, aghast, and she automatically glances around for crazy men with machine guns or grenades (in retrospect, her first move should have been to hide behind her desk), but a quick perusal of the Arrowcave reveals no threat. The room is empty save for the two of them, Diggle having gone to spend his vigilante off-shift with Carly.

When she turns back to Oliver, wondering what she's missing, something like an apology flashes through his eyes. "Sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you. It's just that, I completely forgot about your boyfriend."

"My boyfriend?"

"Yes, the one you told me you had a date with tonight. The reason you aren't able to work late, on what would normally be your night off. The one you mentioned was extremely jealous and possessive, so you couldn't cancel with him. That boyfriend?"

Oh. _That_ boyfriend. "Um, yeah. While we're on that subject–"

"Say no more," Oliver says decisively, "I completely understand. We can't in good conscience go out, not when you're having dinner with what's-his-name tonight. Possessive guys don't like their girlfriend's eating with other men."

"Right," she says. "My boyfriend. Of the infinite possessiveness."

"What was his name again? Dick? Harry?" Oliver scratches his chin thoughtfully, and his studied casualness puts her on guard. They both know she hasn't dropped a name. They both know she has no intention of telling him anything.

"Well, I'd better get back to my pedophiles," Felicity says with false enthusiasm. Another swift hip-swivel brings her back in front of her monitors, which have gone dark in sleep-mode. She jiggles the mouse to wake them up and then resumes typing, fingers flying swiftly over the keys thanks to an extra spurt of adrenaline.

Behind her, the air changes. Becomes charged with electricity. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle and, although she keeps her eyes studiously glued to the computer screen, she can sense him approaching. Even techno-geeks can recognize someone invading their personal space, and with Oliver it's less of an invading and more of a claiming – an all-out crusade to make sure space belongs to him and not her.

 _Play possum_ , her survival instincts caution. _Best case scenario, he'll assume you're dead and lose interest_.

She obeys nature's call, but without much hope. In the past she's found that these sorts of tricks aren't wise to play on Oliver; mostly because he played possum enough on the island enough to now smell the trick a mile away, but partly because the predator in him doesn't take well to false advertising. Like a vulture circling for carrion, finding that his meal is still alive and kicking makes him agitated. Nobody likes an agitated vigilante.

The bones of her spine are ridged with tension, and when she double-clicks an icon the sound gunshots through the silence. She winces. Cold Wars are her least favorite method of argument, but a fairly frequent occurrence in the Arrowcave. It always ends up being a battle of _How long can he stand there_? versus _How long can I stand it_? And Felicity loses every time.

Because he has the power to, Oliver waits until her skin is itching with the urge to turn around, her fingers twitching spasmodically on the keyboard. Just to show her that he could continue…but won't. Then he places his hands on either side of the chair, lowers his mouth to the tip of her ear (she shivers a little at the warm gust of his breath) and whispers -

_"I'm waiting."_


	2. Chapter 2

_Do you know where liars go_?

At ten years old, Anthony Rivera is the oldest child at Sunny Glades Elementary School. He is lean, mean, and fancies himself King of the Playground.

 _Big talk makes for little brain but loud bark_ , tía Luisa murmurs when Felicity carries home gloomy tales, and her nanny is right; Anthony gets away with bullying only because none of the peons are brave enough to withstand him. He isn't very smart, but his face turns purple when he yells. Dictatorships have been held with less.

Felicity dislikes bullies. She especially dislikes Anthony, who teases her for wearing glasses and memorizing poetry. She can't help the fact that she needs an extra pair eyes to see, any more than other kids can help needing an extra pair of underwear because they wet the bed. Neither is the poetry bit her fault – her mind's been bouncing around with so many numbers and dates recently that it actually _hurts_ , and one of the teachers suggested she memorize poetry to center herself. To "soothe her troubled soul", which sounds silly but actually works.

 _Do you know where liars go_?

Storm clouds are gathering in the sky above the rusty swing-set the afternoon that Anthony pushes Phoebe Treylor off the slide. The dark shapes look like little black sheep gathered together, bleating rumbling warnings of rain. A sharp wind whips tight circles across the sandy concrete where Felicity sits, with her Pinky-and-the-Brain lunchbox across her lap and an open book of Robert Frost poems nestled under one knee.

_'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood_

_And sorry I could not travel both_

_And be one traveler, long I stood'_

She is squinting her eyes to block stray eddies of dust when she spots it – the vulnerable tangle of limbs huddled at the top of the slide. Phoebe Treylor is what some of the workers have described as an "odd egg" (ridiculous, because no one could look less like they were protected by a hard shell). While most of the other boys and girls at the daycare have gained the gawky faun-legs of pre-elementary school, Phoebe has retained a sort of chubby defenselessness, like a marshmallow. Soft and sweet with a tendency to be sticky.

The consummate victim for Anthony's torture.

 _Do you know where liars go_?

Later, she overhears him tell the medics that it was an accident. He sounds properly horrified as he recounts glimpsing a body tumble down the slide head- first, landing on that tiny head. He tried to catch her, he says, but it all happened so fast… _Broken fibula_ , says the paramedic. _Possible brain damage_. Anthony cries crocodile tears.

Phoebe doesn't return to the daycare.

The next day, Felicity confronts him. Her hands are trembling and her glasses fog with perspiration, but she stands her ground. Says defiantly, _I saw you do it_. Anthony denies wrongdoing, of course, denies pushing Phoebe down the slide because she didn't go fast enough for his liking, but Felicity is channeling Sailor Moon and won't give up until she has championed justice. She presses on:

_Do you know where liars go? Liars go in time-out. Confess and say you're sorry!_

His response a low, ugly laugh.

 _Liars don't go in time-out, stupid. Liars go to_ hell.

Felicity is dumbstruck. No tears (she won't give him that satisfaction), but something has irreparably broken inside Felicity Megan Smoak – a childish innocence that should have protected her for a few more years yet. She isn't shocked that Anthony Rivera is wicked to the core, because she's suspected that from the beginning and this situation has only proved it. But suddenly she's confronted with the fact that he knows things she doesn't, and that is what's truly frightening.

Bad isn't supposed to be more powerful than good. Bad isn't supposed to be okay with being bad.

'Psychological scarring' is what a counselor would hypothesize, but Felicity's family doesn't have the inclination (or the money) to confirm or deny that theory. Her parents tell her to suck it up; that she has to grow up sometime and now is as good as ever. Be a big girl, Felicity. She swallows her nausea and goes on with life accordingly. To this day, though, she's never quite been able to shake Anthony's mocking voice that echoes whenever she tells a falsehood –

_Liars go to hell, Felicity Megan. Liars go to hell._

So when Oliver whispers "I'm waiting", a curious lassitude slips over her. She's been ducking her head all morning to deflect his pointed remarks and conversational snares, and she's no longer certain what's up from down. She hasn't done a lick of research about Walter all day. Really, she feels like crap – the kind of crap feeling that comes from acting like crap to someone you like. He wants the truth, and all she has is another lie.

Only a horrible person would think to herself: _The heck, I'm already on a highway to Hell. What's another lie added on to the rest?_

Felicity is rapidly discovering that she is a horrible person.

"My boyfriend is a private person," she says in tones of confession. "He doesn't want his name floating around." She lets her eyes guilelessly meet his through the reflection of the computer screen even as her conscience screams, _leave it be! Don't do this_.

Behind her comes the creaking of synthetic fibers as Oliver straightens, sensing weakness. She follows the sounds of his heavy strides as he paces over to the gear table and when she risks a glance, he's weighing an arrow in his hand. He runs caressing fingers over the razor tip.

"Private, mm? How very… eccentric."

"Yeah. He - he doesn't like meeting people. Actually," she adds in a burst of sudden inspiration, "He doesn't like people. Period."

"A misogynist?"

"Oh, God no! Guys with anti-social tendencies are serial killers. He's just, um, very private. He likes me and that's about it."

"Hmm."

The problem with a guy like Oliver is that he can't leave things alone. He's trained himself to be a hunting hound, capable of scenting weakness and tracking the smell to his prey. In a small way he reminds her of Leonard, the graphics guy who vented to her about his divorce one night over drinks. A few sympathetic smiles, a single hand-pat, and _wham_ – he's drunk-dialing her every Tuesday and leaving weepy marriage proposals on her voicemail. Do men share a common handbook on handling women? Maybe chapter one is entitled: 'Go for the Jugular, Latch On, and Bite until She Bleeds.'

And of course, it doesn't help that she's trying to filibuster a guy whose entire life is a lie. He's naturally distrustful and insanely obstinate about withholding judgment until he has solid evidence. He might not be able to disprove her whole 'secret-boyfriend' story, but he's not sold on it, either, not until she gives him something tangible. Like a name. Or a phone number. Or an address.

Oliver smooths the shaft's soft fletching and then gently slides the arrow back into its quiver. "You mentioned dinner reservations at _La Cuchara Plata_ , correct? Eight o'clock."

"Uh…"

Yeah. That might have escaped from her big mouth earlier while she was foolishly and eloquently expanding her _I have plans with my boyfriend_ statement. Darn Oliver's steel-trap mind. Darn her for forgetting that the first rule of a well-crafted subterfuge is to withhold extraneous information.

"I misspoke," she says sharply. Only after he raises an eyebrow does she realize how defensive she sounds. _Come on, Smoak, keep your cool._ In a softer tone she continues, "The word I meant was _casa_ , not _cuchara_. I tend to get the two of them mixed up."

"One means 'spoon' and one means 'house'. How hard is that to keep straight?"

"Not hard at all," she allows, " _If_ you're Mr. Mysteriously Trilingual – quadrilingual – whatever. However, not all of us have had the privilege of private tutors. How many languages do you speak, anyway? Russian, Chinese, Elvish, Pig-Latin… Tell me there's at least one you're bad at."

"German. And don't change the subject."

 _Shoot._ He is quick.

"Okay," Felicity concedes. "Yes, _La Cuchara_ at eight. But sending Diggle to monitor my date? _Nein._ That's German for 'no', by the way."

"Thank you," he says dryly.

"Don't mention it."

She spins back to her computer, hoping against hope that he's given up (ha!) and that this is the end of it.

Click-click.

_Hello, pedophiles. Prepare to meet your doom._

Click-click.

Tapity-tapity-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tapity-tap.

Interspersed with the noise of her typing, she hears the booping and beeping of Oliver's phone. He's calling someone? Her fingers slow on the keys as she pauses to listen.

"Hello, _La Cuchara Plata_? This is Oliver Queen – yes, _that_ Oliver Queen. I was wondering if you might do me a personal favor: could you tell me which table you're seating a friend of mine at tonight? Smoak. S-m-o-a-k. Yes, I'll wait."

Felicity froze.

_He wouldn't._

"No reservation under that name?" His eyes cut to hers. "I understand. It's probably under our mutual friend's. Listen, while I have you here, could you reserve a table for me as well? Q-u-e-e-n. Eight o'clock. Anywhere open is fine. Thank you."

_He would._

Oliver hangs up, still watching her. Her mouth is probably hanging open like a guppy fish, but Felicity doesn't care. She's too caught up in vacillating between get a restraining order now, or waiting until the actual incidence of stalking occurs.

"Felicity? Felicity."

Perhaps Diggle will protect her until the court case goes through. Though, there is the question of conflicting loyalties… So she'd better not bring him into the middle if she can help it.

"Felicity!"

Her heart jumps. "What?"

"If you're creeped out, say so; don't just stand there with your eyes getting rounder and rounder."

"Oliver, you are creeping me out."

He nods, holding out his hands out reassuringly. "Good. Okay, now sit back down – Felicity, _quit_ it! I'm not going to hurt you."

_Said the spider to the fly._

"You just made reservations for the same restaurant that I am going to be eating at in," a quick glance at wall clock, "Six hours. And right now that looks all kinds of weird and wrong, so excuse me for being cautious."

Oliver draws his words out slowly, as explaining to a child. "The reservations are so that I can meet your boyfriend, Felicity. This isn't personal; it's about protecting The Hood and the mission. If you're getting close to someone and he isn't in on our secret, I need to know how trustworthy he is. And if he's dangerous. Do you understand?"

She does. Loud and clear. This is business, not pleasure; she isn't his type, isn't sensual or voluptuous enough to catch his interest in _that_ way. His only concern is to make sure she's hiding his secret identity. Which she is, of course, because there isn't an actual boyfriend in the picture.

 _Don't be hurt_ , she tells herself sternly. _He's your boss; no more, no less._

_Don't be hurt._

Oliver has already gone back to his BlackBerry. Doing something vigilante-related, no doubt. He doesn't glance over as he asks, "I'll be seeing you eight o'clock, then?"

Felicity flinches. She'd almost forgotten the pressing matter at hand. "Um… yeah. Eight o'clock."

"Perfect. I'll send the limo for you."

* * *

Flushed with internal misgivings and an unshakable sense of mortification, Felicity finds herself dressed to the nines and pulling into the parking lot of _La Cuchara Plata_. Or rather, Oliver's limousine chauffeur pulls into the parking lot and Felicity watches from the shelter of tinted windows, wondering what on earth she's doing.

The past few hours have been Cinderella on steroids – a conglomeration of frantic phone calls, hot curlers and nail polish, multitasked with experimental perfume squirts. She has shamelessly cashed in every favor her Queen Consolidated coworkers owe her, and those spoils of war include a shimmery blue evening gown (designer label and about as expensive as her car mortgage), a pair of faux-diamond hair combs, and strappy silver heels that are a size too small. Credit for the dramatic makeup goes to her cosmetology-student neighbor.

If someone were to jumble a bunch of unrelated puzzle pieces together and then try to build a complete puzzle with them, Felicity thinks she would feel like the result. Mismatched. Ill-fitting. Decorated with random fragments of other people. It doesn't matter that she _looks_ good, or that her eyelashes are thick or that men give her second glances as she exits the limo. Inside she is shaking and sick, and that's not pretty at all. Dressing for a dinner with your nonexistent boyfriend is apparently equivalent to wearing skinny jeans on a fat-day.

You just. Don't. Do it.

And there will be no reprieve once she enters the restaurant, either, because Oliver is waiting for her inside. Meeting her at the front desk for her so that she can identify which table her 'date' has reserved. A table that doesn't exist.

Felicity isn't the fainting type, but right now she can understand the lure of having a good feminine swoon. No one would expect her to go to dinner after being hospitalized for, say, anemia. And she hasn't eaten raisons recently…

"Felicity!"

The suddenness of her name makes her jump. "Wha–?"

Fate, it seems, has conspired against her. _La Cuchara Plata's_ glass door is propped open by a black dress shoe connected to a black an equally black (and very well-filled-out) tux. Oliver's scruff-shrouded face beams down at her atop the thick set of shoulders, completing the mouthwatering GQ vision as he calls out to her.

She conceals a shudder. 'Beaming smiles' are second on her list of _Oliver Queen Expressions Not to Trust_. But he's still waving at her eagerly, so she reluctantly crosses the remaining distance. As she walks she mutters, "Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant."

_Hail, Caesar, those who are about to die salute you._

Felicity has been in _La Cuchara Plata_ only once before, on a promotional tour, but she still remembers the awe that came with stepping into another world.

Built at the height of 1900s opulence, when Victorian architecture and design was becoming immensely popular among the _nouveau riche_ , the structure was originally used as a high-class hotel for the city's affluent citizens and visitors. Unfortunately, the Great Depression came and _La Cuchara_ was abandoned, falling into disrepair for many years. Then the Fuller family came to Starling City and invested their wealth into renovating the building and grounds; they took the fading, classic beauty of the place and restored it into an upscale restaurant.

As was on the tour, the interior is brilliantly lit by the sparkle of the two enormous crystalline chandeliers that drape majestically from the ceiling. Hundreds of tiny prisms dangle from their concentric branches, casting refracted shadows across the red-and-gold wallpaper. Spaced evenly along the walls are ornate oak pillars that stretch up past the wide windows.

One part of Felicity is aware that Oliver is behind her, herding her further inside, but for once she pays him no attention. Her lungs are too busy trying to catch up with the images her brain is processing. As the tips of her heeled sandals brush the entryway, her breath catches.

The focus of the room is a sweeping spiral stairway, all polished mahogany wood and black wrought-iron railing. Its steps are covered, landing-to-landing, by carpeting of such deep maroon that the famous Red Carpet looks tawdry by comparison, and on either side of the staircase (both upstairs and downstairs) are white-clothed tables. She's never seen the room set for dinner before, with cream porcelain and silver flatware surrounding a three-tiered candelabra centerpiece.

Felicity thinks she might vomit. Right there in the entryway, with Oliver's hand warming the small of her back. A mixture of stupefaction and plain old nerves is churning her gut, and now, with the novelty of _La Cuchara Plata_ wearing off, she honestly isn't sure if she'll be able to keep from upchucking right in front of the _maître de_. Wouldn't that just leave a delightful lasting impression?

She tugs surreptitiously on the hem of Oliver jacket. When he glances over she mouths, _Which way is the restroom?_

His lips twitch slightly – the jerk – but he obligingly points down a half-hidden hallway that curves around out of sight. She gives him her best impression of a polite, dignified nod before tottering away along the corridor. And unlike Lot's wife, she doesn't look back.

Which isn't to say that she doesn't look forward. Where there just happens to be a seated male with an extraordinarily well-defined back. She's always been a sucker for muscled backs. (Okay, for muscles in general.) Mr. Dreamy has his dress jacket draped casually over the chair next to him, and she wonders if that means he has a date. Everyone in this restaurant probably has a date but her.

That thought sets her hyperventilating again, and bythe time she finds the ladies room her mind one silent litany of _Ohcrapohcrapohcrap_. She stumbles through the door, forgetting to watch where she is going, and nearly collides with an elderly lady whose sparkly green jewels drip down into her prominently-displayed boobs. Um, mumbles a "Sorry," under her breath as she locks herself in a vacated stall.

Then the strength is pouring from her legs and she is sinking to the floor in an undignified heap, breathing unsteadily into her shaking hands. _Ohcrapohcrapohcrap. Get it together, Smoak. You're tough._ She takes a deep breath. _There._ Better.

Missing the comforting weight of her glasses, Felicity rummages blindly around in her silver clutch. _Where did I…? Ah, they are._ Victorious, she slips them on and then dives back in the purse until her hand emerges with her cell phone. The keypad initially thwarts her fingers, but soon she's scrolling through her contact list praying, _Come on, come on, come_.

There it is: _Kerrick, Calvin_.

_Dialing…_

"Hey, you've reached Calvin Kerrick's voicemail. Leave a message, and I'll return your call as soon as I'm able. _Ciao_!"

_Beep._

Felicity spits out a very unladylike word, then sheepishly clears her throat. "Uh, sorry about that. Listen, I need you to get your gay butt to _La Cuchara_ , pronto. Can't explain at the moment, but I promise you that a beautiful and rich man is involved. Please come save me! Um, that's it."

She ends the call and wonders how long she can hide in the bathroom, before Oliver concludes that she's been kidnapped by terrorists and bursts in to find her. At least… she assumes that what he'd do. He _might_ just think she has a bad case of diarrhea and call it an evening. Would that be so bad if he did? She might have to slink out of the restaurant in shame, but she'd also live to fight another day.

Her phone rings. She picks up. Calvin apologetically informs her that that he already has a date for the night. She wishes him all the best, presses the end-call button more forcefully than necessary, and whimpers pathetically.

Her gay cousin has a date. She does not. _Everybody on this freaking earth_ has a date but her.

_Ohcrapohcrapohcrap._

Okay. Breathe. Logically, what's the worst that will happen if Oliver finds out the truth? He fires her? IT work is versatile; she can easily find a job elsewhere. She might not have the same resources available to search for Walter, but she's no Barney Fife. There's quite a lot she can do on her own in that department.

He might be disappointed in her? No big deal. It's not like he's invested in her emotionally, she's only an asset to his alter-ego. He'll get over it. Maybe run into the sympathetic arms of Laurel Lance –

 _We're agreed, then_ , she thinks firmly. _I'll tell him the truth and let the chips fall where they may. Felicity Smoak is no shrinking violet._

Her new-found resolution lasts her all the way out of the restroom and done the corridor. Then she sees the bright lights of the chandeliers and that insidious fear slithers back in. _I like my job. I don't want to lose it. I like the Arrowcave, and being with Diggle and Oliver, and saving the day. I don't want to lose that._

Mr. Dreamy remains at the table where she last spotted him, displaying his sinfully broad back to all-and-sundry. His profile can't compete with Oliver's, of course, but still - he's no slouch. She licks her lips and an idea takes hold.

Instead of continuing on her path to Oliver, she takes a step forward.

Another step.

And another.

Step.

Step.

Somehow, and she doesn't know how, she makes it halfway there. Five steps from his table. Inner Felicity is jumping up and down with cheerleader-like enthusiasm; Outer Felicity's muscles are drawn as taut as one of the vigilante's bowstrings and getting tauter.

 _Keep going, girl, almost there… That's right, just a little bit further. Think happy thoughts._ Hey, it worked for Peter Pan and the Darling family – maybe it can muster a little magic for her, too.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Mr. Dreamy looks up.

Outer Felicity quails. Inner Felicity swoons. Felicity-Somewhere-In-between decides that now is a perfectly splendid time to run back to Oliver and tell him the truth about this farce – because what she couldn't have seen before is that Mr. Dreamy isn't Mr. Dreamy, he is Mr. Lethal. And he has the scariest eyes she has ever seen.

Dark. Hard. Merciless. Set deep into a face carved from the same chunk of rock his body was chiseled from. Hawk nose. Full mouth, wide lips… maybe sensual if he smiled but she has no intention of sticking around long enough to test the heat. He is Judgment Day. She is a good girl. Good girls, Felicity Smoak learned in Synagogue, don't risk the wrath of God just to warm their hands.

_'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I –'_

So many paths to Hell. So little time.

_'I took the one less traveled by.'_


	3. Chapter 3

People turn in their seats, ignoring perfectly good steaming plates of empanadas and tacos in order to politely point and gape. The attention would be flattering, Felicity supposes, if she weren't the faux-blonde that everyone was staring at. If their situations were reversed she'd stare at her, too – there was a reason those reality social-wreck shoes skyrocketed in ratings – and make some wiseass crack about the dinner entertainment being sub-par.

Because, Felicity discovers with a sort of sick fascination, that's what she has become. Dinner entertainment. A circus animal paraded into the ring, with an expectant crowd in the sidelines waiting for the promised tricks. All that's missing is the _maître d'_ swaggering around in ringmaster garb. She can almost hear the yells:

_"See the IT girl in an all-new exhibition! Watch as she stands and gapes like an idiot!"_

Her act is a real hoot.

If she's lucky, guests will shove bills down the vee of her dress and she'll be able to restock her ramen supply before unemployed hits. Or was the bra-stuffing thing just for strippers? She'd know this, if she watched more porn – _more_ meaning any. Unfortunately, whenever the gamers from Tech left those "private movie viewing" invitations on her windowshield, she trashed them for the simple reason that her life is dictated by Murphy's Law.

The day she keeps one will be the day Oliver shows up at her car again, requiring assistance. She just knows it, the way some people know if it's going to rain, or if a serial killer's broken into their house and taken something. And when Oliver does show up, she'd rather he didn't catch her examining incriminating censored boxes because really, no amount of sated curiosity is worth that.

"–Is she?"

"–Just standing there…"

"–Nice dress."

"–With Queen?"

Right. Okay. Undeniably, her synapses have been firing at minimum speed since she entered the restaurant, but she isn't so far gone that she loses sight of her priorities. The mention of his name snaps through her panicked haze and catapults her back to the present.

Queen. Oliver _Queen_. She arrived on the arm of her billionaire boss. And promptly abandoned said billionaire boss to have a meltdown in the ladies' room. Said billionaire boss is, no doubt, watching this entire debacle without missing a single detail and recording them into his freakishly clever brain under right hemisphere subsection (A), entitled: Reasons I Will Never Date Felicity Smoak.

…Not that she thinks he entertains thoughts of them dating. Or not dating. Prescription glasses she may wear, but rose-colored they most certainly are not.

Besides, her current dilemma is on how to preserve what remains of her female dignity, and delving into the ins and outs of Oliver's highly unfathomable mind is a heavy task best saved for another day. She visualizes his disappointed, frowning eyes and cringes. Her legs move woodenly, the numbing lethargy that has been holding her hostage dissipating like dust in the wind.

Spilling coffee on her laptop is preferable to shaming Oliver. Doing fifty pull-ups is preferable to shaming Oliver. Fasting from watching General Hospital is preferable to shaming Oliver. Convincing a random stranger to be her boyfriend for the night? Hardly the worst thing she is willing to do to keep Oliver's respect. A psychologist would a field day with her behavior.

Signs of obsession? Check. Unhealthy attachment? Check. Lowered self-esteem? Check.

 _Good Lord_. She is seriously screwed.

Felicity can sense Mr. Lethal scrutinizing her as she approaches. Just because she doesn't have the guts to look up and make sure, doesn't mean that she can't feel the laser of his gaze burning a path all the way from her French-tipped toes to the ends of her dangly diamond earrings. Carefully dissecting every. Minute. Detail. So much for mystery being a part of a girl's charm…

Her plan is to start out with a basic lash-fluttering and flirtatious, _Is this seat taken?_   Simple. Reliable. The tools of every coquette bent on seduction since before the dawn of time. Wink, giggle, get them eating out of your palm in three seconds flat. And while she's never actually tried that particular strategy, she's watched it employed in numerous chick flicks with pleasing results.

_If Cameron Diaz can do it, so can I!_

Quicker than she is prepared for, her hip is hitting the table. His dark eyes are way too close for her comfort and the willpower to giggle deserts her. To gather her nerves she inhales a deep breath, but somewhere between the contraction and expansion of her lungs the speech she had planned chokes and dies. What emerges from her exhale instead is a frantic explosion of words.

"You're private my boyfriend, _capicé_? Not private like that, we're not exclusive, we're not… anything, actually. I mean – what I'm trying to say is that you don't like people. Or at least, the person you're pretending to be doesn't like people. Maybe you do. Maybe you don't. But I lied and said you didn't, so would you please scowl at least every five minutes?"

As far as explanations go, that one is about as useful as a dead goldfish – not enough there to really be worth flushing down the toilet – and from the bemused look on his face, most of what she just said was either lost between her heavy pants and gasps, or just plain didn't make sense. Plus, she's pretty sure she's having heart convulsions. Is it possible to have a heart attack from breathing too much?

But at least he hasn't laughed yet. She's been half-afraid he wouldn't believe her, that he'd write it off as a joke or an awful pick-up line and then she'd have to inform him that no, this is a very serious matter concerning the possible (okay, probable) death of her life and dignity. And if he was anything like the sarcastic, bite me techies at work, he'd say something like "the death of life is a serious matter indeed", and she'd choke attempting to exterminate the foot shoved down her throat.

Miserable and short-lived first impressions are her M.O.

Thankfully, he doesn't laugh and he doesn't call security. He only crooks an impossibly long finger at her, motioning her closer. Tempting her into folly,

"What's your name, lovely lady?"

God. His voice. Huskier than a college all-star quarterback on steroids. Crisp, but sort of growly, like she imagines manly men sound when they're finagling to get under a girl's skirts. Is this guy aiming to get under _her_ skirt? No. No way. Gorgeous, here, wouldn't touch her with a ten foot pole – especially his own, personal, substantially-less-than-ten-foot pole – to save his life.

Wallstreet GQ and Mr. Fix-it don't mix.

"Miss?"

She jolted. _Name, he asked for a name._ "Uh, Smoak. Felicity Megan. Smoak. Sir."

"Felicity." He tastes it on his tongue. "'Happiness, luck, good-fortune'. Impressive."

_Did he just…? Out of thin air?_

Correctly interpreting her expression as incredulity, he shrugs modestly. "I'm a bit of a name connoisseur. Good ones are as hard to find as good wine, I've found. Speaking of drinks – won't you sit down and share one with me?"

 _Oh, my._ Silk from the Orient couldn't have been smoother. Felicity was on the cusp of agreeing, when she felt a proprietary touch on her elbow.

"Oliver Queen," says Oliver. "Of the _Queen Consolidated_ Queen's, and Ms. Smoak's employer. You are?"

Darting an anxious glance at the man's face – she didn't have time yet to explain the ruse or the rules of the game – she finds his attention focused entirely on Oliver. He extends a hand.

"Bruce Wayne. Of _Wayne Enterprises_. I'm sure you've heard of me, Mr. Queen?"

"I haven't had the pleasure." Oliver grasps the proffered hand. Squeezes. "Unfortunately, for the past five years my social circle has been limited to tropical monkeys."

"A shame." Bruce gestures at the two empty chairs across the table. "Please, don't stand on my account."

And of course, because the night wouldn't be complete without topping the Guinness World Record in surprises, no sooner does Felicity twitch in the direction the chair to her right than Oliver pulls it out for her and motions her to sit. Oliver Queen, the guy who normally treats her as a cross between his laboratory rat and a gender-neutral Tonto.

Something smells fishy, here, and she's fairly sure it's not the blackened tilapia.

"Mr. Wayne," Oliver begins pleasantly, "Why don't you tell me your opinion on the euthanization of kittens?"

Dinner progresses at a snail's pace. Alcohol would have been lovely, but Bruce already sips from a flute of white wine so evidently the waiter has completed his drink rounds. Felicity abandons gazing longingly towards her empty glass and contents herself with staring enviously at Bruce's full one. In her peripheral vision, Oliver systematically disassembles his silverware cylinder.

"So… Bruce. Where are you staying?"

"Starling City's finest: the Plaza Hotel."

" _Ahh_." Oliver draws out the syllables. "Excellent choice. I'm told that the service there is tremendous."

"They do value their clientele," Bruce agrees. "I've seen quite a bit of the world and let me tell you, Gems like the Plaza are a dime a dozen. Free food, free French maids, and free fruit baskets; that right there, my friend, is what I call luxury."

There it is. _Playboy_. Felicity shudders, endeavoring to suppress her disillusionment. _No matter where I turn, these days, they're surrounding me. Sexy, reckless, and uninterested._ _Where are all the boring, golden-hearted guys that supposedly chase after the 'girl next door type' and live off of fast food? Why did they all have to be replaced by candidates from_ The Bachelor?

Picking up the salad fork from beside his empty plate, Oliver began absentmindedly twirling it between his knuckles. "Seen quite a bit of the world, hm? Tell me where you've been."

"Oh, you know, the usual; London, Paris. Rome. A short stint in Germany that I'd rather forget."

"Ah." Oliver nods. " _Tranken ein paarzu vieleEntwürfe,nicht wahr?_ "

Bruce raises his wine glass meaningfully. " _Und branntedie Kerzeein wenigzu sehr anden Dochtzu schließen._ "

Oliver did not just converse in German, Felicity thinks savagely. He did not. She goes for a playful nudge with her shoulder, but somehow her elbow winds up in his sternum. He makes a little wheezing noise, and she almost is repentant.

Almost.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she fusses. "Did that hurt? You know how clumsy I am, without my glasses… But, Mr. Queen, I could've sworn I remember you telling me you didn't speak German."

His glare promises retribution. "Wherever did you get that idea?"

"From a misinformed source, it appears."

"Be careful who you trust, Ms. Smoak."

Their byplay is hardly subtle, but Felicity isn't overly concerned. After tonight, she'll never see Bruce Wayne again. What he sees and hears is immaterial. It's not as if he, a visitor, has anyone to tell. Convincing Oliver is her one and only goal for this evening.

To that end, she pastes on a sweet smile. _Think, 'in love'. Think, Cameron Diaz._ "I find Bruce very trustworthy," she dimples. "Plus, he can be romantic in more than one language. A girl would have to be a fool not to appreciate that!"

Oliver's gaze sharpens, and she shuts up. _Fast. Watch it. Don't lay the honey on too thick. You're going for 'glowing with infatuation', not 'Barbie personality rehaul'_.

Definitely no more dimples.

With no further comments coming from his right, Oliver moves back to Bruce. "Mr. Wayne, Felicity tells me that you're a very solitary person. Why is that, exactly?"

Bruce meets his gaze levelly. "It's not a crime to value privacy."

"True. But it's been my experience that private people usually have something to hide. In the interesting of starting over with a clean slate – is there anything you'd like to confess?"

He chuckles disarmingly. "Mr. Queen, my face is the cover of January, May, and November's GQ magazine and I'm targeted by one of the largest paparazzi mobs in America. What could I possibly have to hide?"

The challenge is subtle, but present. Felicity widens her eyes, making certain she has the whole scene captured, then closes them to record and imprint the moment in her memory – the first time since joining Team Arrow that she's seen a rival male fail to bow down before the genetic anomalies that are Oliver's superior he-man pheromones.

Maybe she can video this with her cell phone and send the feed out with her yearly Christmas cards. _See, Mom? See, Dad? Oliver Queen isn't God. Unless we're talking the Greek, physique-chiseled-from-granite-and-women's-fantasies kind. Because he's definitely one of those._

"I don't know what you're hiding." Provoked, Oliver's black pupils contract to pinpricks surrounded by a sea of blue. It's an animalistic reaction. Felicity shivers. "Please don't make the mistake of assuming that I won't find out."

"Making mistakes, Mr. Queen, isn't in my nature."

"Giving the wealthy a moral pass isn't in mine."

With a flash of uncharacteristic intuition, Felicity realizes that this is no longer about her and Bruce, or her and Oliver. This is Oliver versus the island. The Vigilante lifting his hood for an instant to reveal the man, shipwrecked and far from home. A man who was forcibly refined with fire and hardened into a substance too pure for this world.

Black-and-white Oliver living a shades-of-grey world. Ricocheting from extreme to extreme – why walk when you can run? Why whisper when you can shout? Why lie when you can tell the truth, but why tell the truth when you can lie? – and despising himself for it. But because he couldn't afford to follow the rules himself, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure everyone else did.

_What a hypocrite, she thinks. My hypocrite. Can you be my priest, too? Because I need to confess a few sins of my own. Without judgment._

"Dessert's a bit pricey, guys, so why don't we call it a night–"

"One last things, Mr. Wayne," Oliver interrupts her. "You've been around the block a couple times, am I right?"

Oh. Oh, no. _He did not just say that. Tell me he did not just say what I think he just said._

"I beg your pardon?"

"We're both handsome, virile men, wealthy to the extreme. _I_ certainly have played that card a time or two; don't tell me you haven't as well."

The corners of Bruce's mouth pull downward. "Why don't you just say what you're trying to say, Mr. Queen?"

"Fine," Oliver says bluntly. "I want to know how committed you are to Felicity."

" _Oliver_ ," Felicity gasps.

Mr. Wayne leans back into his chair. Not defensively, but slow and relaxed; reclining rather than retreating. His expression, to Felicity's horror-filled eyes, is almost amused.

"The real question is, Mr. Queen, how committed are _you_ to Felicity? Not many employers stick around to meet an employee's significant other."

"She's more than just an employee. She's my friend. Do you know what I do to people who hurt my friends?"

Um, okay, hold on; what had happened to, _It's business, Felicity, and nothing more?_ Who was this Oliver Queen? Felicity places a hand on one of his (very) hard, (very) tense shoulders and thinks, _Boy does he have sexy muscles_.

"Listen, Oliver, there's something you need to know–"

"Not now, Felicity," he snarls. " _Am I understood_ , Mr. Wayne?"

Before Bruce can reply, the three of them notice the sudden stillness of the restaurant.

Felicity's first thought is that Oliver's threats were a great deal louder than he meant them to be, and several someone's had overheard and called, or were in the process of calling, Detective Lance to report a potential homicide. That would be bad on multiple levels, not the least of which would be having the man who fathered Laurel "The Paragon of Virtue" Lance see her at less than her best. It wasn't like she is Laurel's competition or anything… It's just the principle of the matter.

Rather than Detective Lance marching towards them, though, there is a woman. Tall and trim, her model curves encased in a red sheathe. Legs up to her armpits and black stiletto heels nearly as high. Ebony hair. She doesn't look at the people watching her. She doesn't look at the ground. Her slanted eyes are squarely on Bruce.

He casts Felicity a resigned look. "Sorry. The jig is up."

Felicity wrinkles her nose at him in confusion, but doesn't have time to get out a question before the fem fatale is at their table.

"Bruce," the woman purrs. "Did you forget to save me a seat on our own date?"

Bruce raises a dark brow. "You were busy pouting."

"Lucky for you, sugarplum, I'm not pouting anymore." The woman presses her scarlet lips to his passionately, the kiss little more than a proprietary marking – a feline spraying on its territory. Still, by the time they both come up for air, Bruce is wearing a genuine smile.

"Claws in, Selina."

The woman stretches a slender hand up, as if to caress his jaw, but at the last moment her fingers flex. Dig until the skin reddens. "Who, me?"

"Manners," he murmurs.

* * *

During the next few minutes, Felicity doesn't dare look over at Oliver. After exchanging token pleasantries with the new dinner guest, she hears his chair scrape back and his controlled voice bidding Mr. Wayne and his wife, Selena, a pleasant night.

Then his fingers are curling around her upper arm (gently, so gently), and he's forcing her to rise. She manages to waggle her fingers at the happy couple before Oliver escorts her from the restaurant.


	4. Chapter 4

“So, how long are we going to play the grudge game?”

Her only answer is the near-silent tick of the wall clock. The wall clock that she purchased with her own hard-earned money rather than Queen Credit, a tribute to the strength of a determined woman and Felicity’s personal brand of stubbornness. Both tasteful and modern, the piece is deliciously decorative and can be in no way used as a weapon. Some secret part of her hopes, when she procures it, that he will notice and appreciate the personal touch, maybe…think of her whenever he looks at it. Now it sits on her desk underneath a thin film of dust, abandoned.

Just like her.

Not forgotten, forgotten would be far preferable because forgetting is passive – a lack of emotion or emotional investment. Given enough time you can shake off being forgotten, move on. Build yourself back up. Abandonment, though, abandonment is personal, a direct statement of I-couldn't-care-less. An acknowledgement of worthlessness. Felicity knows both forgetting and abandonment, and familiarity never dulls the sting of the latter. Each time bites like the first.

The kicker is that part of her has been expecting this outcome since the day Oliver strode into her IT cubicle, silver-tongued and with the banked fervor of a zealot in his eyes. In that moment she knows, even before he opens his mouth and shoves that crap explanation at her about coffee shops in bad neighborhoods that he will be arsenic to her carefully ordered and perfectly sterile habitat.

_When will I learn that the men in my life are pros at abandonment?_

Case in point: the cold should she’s been getting from Oliver for the past week. Granted, it’s an extraordinarily well-formed shoulder and even under the circumstances she’s more than happy to stare at it – thanks to his pattern of near-constant shoulder touching she now has a slight obsession with said body part – but Felicity prefers it drenched in sweat and mashed up against her along with the rest of his body due to some bomb explosion, or large and warm in the corner of her vision as he leans down next to her and inspects the information gathered on her computer...Not stiff and impersonal, across the room and a galaxy away.

Pretending his arrows are the only objects in the room worthy of his attention.

It messes with her, his anger. It’s supposed to, she’s sure, but it does so and more because she’s her and she has history with this sort of thing, and even though he doesn't know that she still can’t help but feel sick. Emotional codependency is an incredibly unhealthy habit. Too much value placed on one person’s opinion, too much time trying to measure up to another’s standards, and you lose sight of reality altogether. Her gut burns as if she has gulped down a cocktail of regret and resentment, a toxic a combination. Speaking of alcohol – darn Oliver for planting his secret headquarters underneath a club with a bar, where the temptation of sweet oblivion is so near and so delicious!

It’s _his_ fault, not hers, that she continually finds herself tipsy at three-a.m. That her face is bloated morning-after-morning from eating too many chocolate truffles and mini-éclairs, and that these past few days she has spent more money on cream eye-concealer than on oolong tea. Plus, for the past two hours she’s had to pee like crazy but has put it off for the sake of creating a firewall for a security system that won’t ever technically exist – foundry politics, ladies and gentlemen. It takes ghost writing to a whole new level, like designing the Taj Mahal but letting the credit go to some hick from Ogallala, Nebraska. Nobody but Felicity would be able to pull it off. She kicks mean hardware ass.

That’s been her one assurance this whole time; that Oliver might not like her at the moment but he _needs_ her, like the Brain needs Pinky. Even though he doesn't want to admit it, not even to himself, without her he’d just be another crazy guy getting into street brawls and losing bits of his soul in darkened alleys. He can’t get rid of her without getting rid of his last tie to humanity, that vague concept of what it means to be normal that is his last fortress against the rage burning inside him. Despite her missteps and his childish reactions, they’re linked. Too much history to abandon ship now.

Felicity remembers that the point of this whole endeavor was to make a point. What that point was, however, she has lost track of some time ago… Sort like that Old Testament Bible-story she learned in Synagogue as a child, where God turned himself into a pillar of fire so he could guide the Hebrews through the desert (modern smoke-signals, anyone?), but the tribe managed to constantly get sidetracked and land themselves in heaps of trouble. A group of people in an empty desert couldn't manage to follow a freaking _pillar of fire_. She thinks about it and isn't sure whether to laugh or to cry. It would appear that ADD is in her ancestry.

She wants to apologize. She wants to cry. She wants to heave one of her especially heavy and expensive monitors at his head, but that wouldn't be fair to the monitor. Besides, the air is crowded enough with Oliver’s condemnation and accusing glare without her added weight of apology or accusations. She’s not sure what she’d say, anyway, (more of her usual unsteady, convoluted flow of words, most likely) and she’s not at all sure that he’d stick around to listen.

_Better to be thought a fool then open my mouth and remove all doubt._

But Felicity recognizes the thought as the meaningless justification it is. Reparation is necessary for her actions, she knows, to repair the relationship that she had a hand in breaking. For the betrayal – oh, not purposeful, never purposeful, but a betrayal just the same – that she perpetrated by she taking Oliver’s hard-won trust and throwing it in his face. Her original intent might have been harmless, but she should know by now that things never go the way she plans. As soon as words and actions leave her body she loses control of them, like bubbles drifting away in the wind.

In order for either of them to move on, to be a team again, they have to resolve this.

“Oliver,” she tries.

No answer.

Felicity switches to cajoling. “Oliver, I know you can hear me. I really think we should talk about this. Please?”

No answer.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. This whole thing was stupid. And childish. And immature.” She sucks in a juddery breath and then lets it out. “I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning. I know that. I _know_ that. But I just – for one day, Oliver, for one single day, I wanted to be _not_ rational. To be not single. To make dumb choices and play a prank and pretend that my job doesn't entail me sitting alone in a basement and watching people die of unnatural causes.”

Confessing this is hard. Relationships, she’s learned in the past year, are hard. Crushes are the worst, because infatuation clouds perceptions and dulls common sense; robbed of logic, people become fools for what they love. She much prefers clacking away at her keyboard, where there is no risk of hurting or being hurt.

But…no pain, no gain. Unpleasant things are a lot like throwing up: the only way to feel better is to get the ordeal over with. And, despite the ache crawling up her gut, getting all that off her chest is a relief – she’s an awful liar, the worst. Bad at it, bungles it, can’t even appreciate it in the moment. Having to keep up with the lies and half-truths has become almost a physical pain, one she rejoices to be rid of.

However, in the face of utter silence her inclination to grovel is fading fast. _You want to it play rough, buddy? Fine then. Just call me Mistress Felicity._

“Would it really kill your pride to turn around and look me in the eye, Mr. Queen?” She doesn't even wait for the predicted silence, just takes a gulp of air and lets the words fly. “Okay, so maybe I lied. Maybe I lied a lot. But for all you knew, I _did_ have plans with a very nice, very handsome man who was going to drive me home after dinner to share a bottle of exorbitantly expensive wine while we played a game of Scrabble. What if _that_ was what you had interrupted? You’d be the one apologizing, that’s what – so don’t act like I’m the only one at fault here.”

_Thud._

Felicity jerks in her seat. The wall target quivers for a full thirty seconds under the force of the two arrows embedded in its yellow center. Slowly, carefully, Oliver sets his bow down on the bench and then finally turns around. His eyes tell her nothing.

“Scrabble. Is that a euphemism for…?”

She flinches. “ _No_! Gracious. Dirty mind, much? It’s a board game that normal people play, Oliver, people who aren't obsessed with playing tonsil hockey. Because it’s fun. And you know what? I haven’t had fun in a very long time.”

He moves closer. “You've been working nonstop recently–”

“Oh, you noticed that, did you? Did you also notice that while you’re out on your nightly flirt-dates gathering information, I’m stuck in the Arrowcave monitoring major news channels? Eating frozen TV dinners and missing out on Grey’s Anatomy?”

Frustration pulls the corners of his lips taut. “My love-life isn't the issue here. And anyway, weren't you were the one who suggested I do ‘a little flirty-flirt’ in the first place?”

She forces her fingers to relax from their compulsive death-grip on the armrests. “’A’. Singular. Yes. A suggestion which I now deeply regret. Oliver, what I’m trying to say is that I’m a _person_ and not a machine. I don’t run on batteries and hardrives, and you can’t reboot me if I slow down. I – I have to eat, and sleep, and pee, and occasionally talk with a person outside of this godforsaken basement–”

“Noted.”

“–And furthermore, I am not your personal busboy or your pet. I don’t play fetch for a pat on the head or a dangled treat, especially when I don’t even get to eat said treat. I mean, you never even gave me that bottle of wine you promised!” She falls silent, panting a little as the echoes of her shout fade. In the wake of her emotion, his shoulders have slumped. Frustration no longer pulls his cheekbones taut and the iciness is gone from his eyes, the warmth in them now hinting at something close to regret. Felicity wishes she were brave enough to assume that he is sorry for mistreating her but instead wonders if this is him preparing to say goodbye.

“I –”

_…Don’t want to ever see you again, Ms. Smoak._

“–knew.”

She blinks. Momentarily flummoxed by the arbitrariness of the comment. “Knew? Knew what?” Knew that she had felt under-appreciated? Knew that she was trouble when she walked in?

“I…knew. That you didn't really have a boyfriend.” Guiltily, his gaze shifts away from hers. “Or a date at the restaurant.”

He knew. All this time. All this dancing and dodging and lying, all this anger and mental anguish – and _he knew_?

“Oliver.” She stops. Swallows. “Oliver.”

Rather unhelpfully he says, “Yes?”

She says his name one more time, because her mind is stuck there. “ _Oliver_. For the love of all that is holy and in sacred in this world. Why didn't you tell me this earlier?”

 

A/N: _I can’t thank you all enough for the kind reviews and favorites, and for sticking with me during my long sabbatical. One more chapter to go, folks!_


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